My precious
by Laerthel
Summary: /One-shot./ Third Age, Hobbiton. Bilbo Baggins seems to have slight problems with his treasure.


_This fic is one of my early attempts in English – sorry for the grammar._

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**My precious**

He heard a last echoing dump on the front door and his unwelcome guest was gone. She called him once again for the last time in that annoying, bringing tone that he had always hated.

Lobelia Sackville-Baggins had another look through the fence; she pictured Bag-End once again looking for its owner – and finally, as she saw nothing, she was gone.

He laughed merrily and pulled off the Ring.

A thrush left the closest tree with a sudden _hiss_, its little heart missing a beat as Bilbo Baggins appeared from nothing, right in the middle of his garden. The hobbit hardly noticed the bird; he sat on his little balcony, crossed his legs and filled his pipe with the best weed of the Southern Lands. He blew wide circles of smoke and watched them fly away to the East. To the East, where it all began.

Bilbo rolled the Ring over his palm, picturing it carefully for the thousandth time, losing himself in the flawless perfection of the little golden circle and the reflecting sunlight on its top. The Ring was made of gold; the clairest, noblest, shiniest gold that Bilbo had ever seen. The sunlight set the Ring on bright, yellow fire as if it was alive, breathing, eyeing its owner.

Wildness, stubbornness, freedom and pride was shining bright in the small golden circle on Bilbo's palm. Its surface remained cool despite the three hours that his owner already spent in the sunlight. Bilbo felt a sudden desire to pull the Ring back on his finger, and so he did.

The world changed in front of his eyes. The colours were deeper now, the shadows darker, the unseen, invisible details around him were suddenly revealed, easily noticable. His senses grew stronger with every second. He could even _feel_ the tiny spider hiding behind his armchair; a sudden anger and uneasiness grew in his stomach as he remembered his Mirkwood adventures.

_THAT was one hell of a spider._

The sunlight suddenly hurt his eyes though he had always loved it. Now, with the Ring on his finger it meant danger.

_My shadow. Anyone could notice my shadow so I wouldn't remain invisible. The sun's yellow face sees me wherever I go._

He slid under his roof, back to the shadows. He pictured the hot, bright stripes of sunlight on his table like a wild, cornered animal.

_Why am I afraid? It has no sense._

He was perfectly invisible, the sunlight couldn't reach him now. As he raised his right hand he and only he could see the Ring on his finger, bright red like a circle of fire, of unlocked energy; some wild, hidden power that could burn the whole world down. He was safe. He was protected. But still... as the sunlight reached his feet once more, its touch hot and dry like every summer, he felt so hopelessly _visible_. His senses signed danger from every corner, hidden enemies behind every door. He didn't know of whom he was so deadly afraid but someone was watching him. Someone was keeping an eye on him. An eye red from anger, filled with hate; an eye huge and wild like Smaug's... an Eye that sees everything.

Bilbo was running now. He jumped across the fence with the Ring on his finger and hurried towards the woods. He reached the end of Hobbiton in minutes and ran deep among the trees.

Silence and peace surrounded him when he finally stopped, breathless, sweating all over. The Ring slipped off his finger and sank into the grass next to his feet. Bilbo fell to his knees and searched it quickly, in panic.

The Ring was back in his palm now, its perfectly round shape glimmering in the soft forest-light. Suddenly all danger seemed far away, all menace seemed pointless and Bilbo laughed at his own stupidity.

_I'm kind of addicted to this ring. My love for it is nearly out of control. This ain't right... I have to do something. I'm always afraid of losing it; maybe I'd better lock it in somewhere._

He already tried it once; he woke up three times every night, horrified, shaking and ran to his secret wardrobe to check the Ring out. And when he finally sank back to his bed his dreams were full of robberies and criminals. This hell lasted three days - Bilbo kept his ring in his pocket since then.

_I can't keep order to save my life. Nowhere. That's my problem_...

Bilbo remembered some words of Gandalf now in which he couldn't find the meaning when they were said... but now, somehow, all seemed to clear up.

"Be careful with your treasure, lad," the wizard had warned him. "Magic rings are definitely... _magical_, if you know what I mean. Their power always has some effects on their owner. They... change people, and not always to the best. Pay attention anytime you use your ring, Bilbo. And don't tell no one you have it... I guess that's something I don't even have to warn you about. Keep your ring as safe and as secret as possible."

_Gandalf thinks my problem is the Ring itself. But how could that be? Objects don't have souls. And even if the Ring has some bad effects on me, I'm strong enough to fight them. It can never make me go crazy. I'm able to rule my mind._

Bilbo hid the Ring in his backpocket and walked out to the light, eyeing the peaceful landscape of Hobbiton. The large, green valley seemed wonder-like, everlasting.

_No evil could ever get here. No power can ruin our happy lives. The wild East is so far away. No harm can reach us here._

_Why am I thinking about this? War is over. The dragon is dead and Dain is King Under The Mountain._

Bilbo touched his precious in his pocket to make sure it was there, right at its place.

Why shouldn't he call it like that? Yes, it was Gollum who invented the name; and Gollum was an evil folk. Odd enough. But words are words, not poison. He, Bilbo as the Ring's next (and hopefully the last) owner has every right to call his Ring, his treasure, his _posession_ any name he wants to.

"_My preciousss,"_ Gollum had whispered with an uncomfortably long, evil, hissing 's'. The word sounds much friendlier, much better, much... more believable from his mouth. He can call the Ring his precious. His biggest treasure. His reward. He can do it. He _should_.

"My precious," Bilbo whispered, his eyes gazing upwards. The sky was deep blue; white clouds were floating in the soft wind like huge bites of cotton candy.

At the very same moment, a red eye hissed open above the ruins of a black tower, far away to the East. Shapeless black shadows circled the castle's remains, screaming in horror when the Eye noticed them.

The shadows grew into nine dark, faceless figures; the tallest one wore a pale silver crown.


End file.
